


Lend Me Your Eyes, Give Me Your Heart

by Akiruchan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blind Stiles, Derek being a sweetie pie, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Magic Stiles, twisting of Greek myth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiruchan/pseuds/Akiruchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles’ life sucks. He’s honest enough with himself to admit to at least that. More often than not he spends his free time running for his life, saving people from creatures who want to rip his face off, and all around having a distinct lack of self-preservation. It sort of comes with the territory. Not something he can avoid when his circle of friends happen to be werewolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lend Me Your Eyes, Give Me Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [patrese1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrese1/gifts).



> This fic was written for patrese1 and the Sterek Campaign Author Auction. She wanted a blind!Stiles fic where Stiles was able to see through Derek's eyes. This is what I ended up coming up with. 
> 
> It was a joy to write this! I only hope that it's enjoyed!

Stiles’ life sucks. He’s honest enough with himself to admit to at least that. More often than not he spends his free time running for his life, saving people from creatures who want to rip his face off, and all around having a distinct lack of self-preservation. It sort of comes with the territory. Not something he can avoid when his circle of friends happen to be werewolves. 

Granted, Stiles still believes that some things are still sacred. Ghost are firmly placed in that category of make-believe that has gotten a little too short for Stiles liking. He had to cross off vampires from that list just last month when one thought it would be smart to set up shop in a town full of werewolves. Needless to say the vampire didn’t last the weekend. 

So maybe Stiles can understand the possibility of vampires being a real thing. They are so tightly intertwined within human fantasy, and so closely entwined with werewolves in lore that it was probably a given that Stiles would meet one at some point. 

But then comes a monster that has Stiles just wanting to burn his list for all the good it is. Because Gorgons? Really? Zeus might as well strike him down now because what is his life? Since when did he become Perseus? This is not a thing that should happen!

When statues begin to pop up in the woods that eerily resemble confirmed missing peoples, Stiles has to be honest and say that his mind doesn’t fly straight to Greek mythology. If only it had, then perhaps he would not be in the current predicament that he’s in. Stiles knows it’s a Gorgon the moment he bumps into the thing, all serpent haired and snake eyed ugly, before his world goes dark. 

Stiles supposes he should be happy that Homer didn’t do his homework. Or maybe no one survived to learn the truth. He expects his body to stiffen to stone, but all Stiles feels is the disorientation that comes with lack of sight before there is a roar and a hiss and everything is too loud all at once. 

What ever is happening, a fight he assumes, stops abruptly and Stiles startles when strong hands fall to his shoulders. 

“Stiles!” Derek’s voice is sharp and concerned. 

“Did you just kick Medusas’ ass?” It’s all Stiles can think to say at the moment. He’s still trying to figure out why he’s blind, and more importantly why he’s not turning to stone. “We’re not garden ornaments?” He should sound happier than he does. 

There’s a hand suddenly cupping Stiles’ face and forcing it up. It’s unnerving to not be able to read Derek’s expression and more so to have Derek handle him so casually. 

“Can you see me?” 

“At least I’m not stone.” ‘Cause Stiles needs to look at the bright side of things, even if nothing is really making sense. “Which I’m really happy about. If you can’t tell. But the blind thing might be a concern.” He takes a breath and pauses, looking up towards where he guesses Derek is. “Can you see?” 

Stiles is lifted up, Derek supporting him as he finds his footing. “Supernatural healing?” That shouldn’t be a question, but it makes sense, more or less, enough not to have Stiles question it. 

What he does question, and will continue to question, is the lack of statue Stiles. “Why am I just blind then?” he asks, tone indigent. 

Derek huffs and begins to guide Stiles through the woods. He trips more than a hand full of times before he’s being swung up and into Derek’s arms. Stiles complains, wriggling until the prospect of being dropped stills his movements. There is a hot breath near Stiles’ ear that causes him to jump a moment before Derek begins to speak. 

“Deaton thinks they probably blind their prey to make it easier to catch. Then they feed and drain the life away, leaving nothing but a stone corpse. Probably where the misconception came about in the myth.” 

“And we know this how?” 

“It was feeding in Oregon, Ashland area, before moving down here. Apparently she let a victim escape. He’s blind, but perfectly fine otherwise.” There is an undertone to Derek words, a disagreement boiling just under the surface. Stiles doesn’t miss it, and he can’t help but agree. Being blind does not equal to being perfectly fine. 

A silence settles over them; only the cracking of underbrush filling the cooling air. It chills Stiles’ skin and blows by him as Derek picks up pace. They are out of the woods soon enough, no doubt en route to the Stilinski household. The thought of home has Stiles’ stomach clenching. His dad, what would his dad think of this? 

Stiles might be able to get away with this for a few days, if he’s lucky, but he’s unsure what he will do if this turns out to be permanent. It’s a terrifying thought, and his heart pounds within his chest. He doesn’t want to panic, not yet and surely not in Derek Hale’s arms. He’s not that much of a wimp, or so he tells himself. 

“Another block,” Derek says, pulling Stiles tighter to him and picking up his pace. 

It makes Stiles want to role his eyes. He knows Derek can sense his distress, but that doesn’t mean Stiles wants him to acknowledge it. “There’s no rush. Not like I can do much once I get there. Will probably stub both toes and break a vase before even making it to my room.” It’s true to a degree, darkly so, but he feels the need to force some humor into the situation. 

Derek doesn’t slow down, and it’s far too soon that Stiles is being carried through the front door like a new bride. “Are you going to carry me upstairs and deflower me on our marital bed?” Stiles quips. It earns him a rough toss onto his bed and a mouth full of pillow. 

The comforter tangles between Stiles’ legs and it takes him a moment to right himself. His hands skim over hard covers of books, and he takes a moment to thank his luck that Derek didn’t drop him on those. The imprinted leather of the books makes for easy identification, even if Stiles remembers flipping through them earlier that day. They’re old, older than what Stiles feels comfortable handling. He pushes them to the side, and tries not to think about never reading them again. And here he was just getting into the good spells too. 

It was partly thanks to a tracking spell that he was even able to pin point a location on the Gorgon. It was a vague idea of the monsters whereabouts, but it is better than nothing. Stiles is still a long ways off from performing the spell with accurate results. The down side to all of this, and the reason for Stiles current predicament, was having the pack split up to cover more ground. 

One of these day, Stiles is sure of it, they will learn that splitting up is bad. He can only hope he’ll live to see that day. So far his out look on the future is looking pretty grim. It’s all black as far as he can see. Stiles snorts, and he knows that earns him a disgruntled look from Derek. He doesn’t even need to see to know that much. That, at the very least, is heartening. 

The bed suddenly dips beside him, and Stiles swears he doesn’t jump. “Hey! No sneaking up on the blind guy.” There are warm hands on Stiles face again, heavy and demanding as they turn his face to their will. 

“You can’t make anything out at all?” Derek sounds concerned, which is never a good thing. 

“Just black. Inky, endless, black,” Stiles says. “So unless someone upstairs turned the lights out, I think it’s safe to say I’m blind.” 

The forced laugh at the tip of Stiles’ tongue is cut off by a growl. “Don’t say that,” Derek barks. “You’re not blind.” 

“Uh, yeah. I think I am.” 

That earns him another growl and his face being yanked. Hot breath is fanning over Stiles’ cheeks and he really doesn’t want to think about how close Derek might be. He can already feel the warmth of a blush creeping up his neck, and Stiles knows Derek must see it. Stiles can picture the look on Derek’s face, eyebrows scrunched and confusion etched into calculating eyes. 

The imagine is fuzzy, and he finds it hard to hold onto the specific features of Derek’s face. No matter how many times he’s seen it, the more he tries, the harder it is to remember. What color are Derek’s eyes? He knows they were never one single color; no one color would do them justice. Suddenly, Stiles realizes he’ll never see this man again. He’ll only be left with a vague sense of him. Thoughts of his father pop into Stiles’ head, and he can’t even bring himself to imagine forgetting his father’s face. 

With out a conscious thought, Stiles hands are moving to cup Derek’s jaw. The rough stubble grates along Stiles’ finger tips, but he doesn’t care. “I’m going to miss your Sourwolf face.” He fumbles his way up Derek’s hair line and to his forehead, smoothing out the frown lines. “Why so serious?” Stiles doesn’t even laugh. 

“You’ll see again.” But even Stiles can hear the uncertainty there. Derek has managed to do a lot of things, but Stiles doesn’t think this is something Derek can fix. 

Stiles sighs, shaking his head. “No chicken counting. I’m not letting anyone get their hopes up. Let alone mine. You understand?” He shakes Derek’s head in a ‘yes’ gesture, smiling just a bit as he does so. 

There isn’t an answer, not for a long while. Stiles wonders if he’s crossed some line, or angered Derek in some way. He goes to pull back, letting his hands drop down to the side, until his wrist are caught and being guided back up. Derek is gentle in his handling, and it’s almost unnerving. Stiles is so used to being pushed around and shoved into walls. 

This, whatever this is, is new and different and strange. It’s nice, Stiles will admit to that. He’s comforted in knowing that Derek is here, and that, despite everything, he cares. Truthfully Stiles shouldn’t find it so shocking that Derek cares for him; not after how many times they’ve saved each other’s necks. 

“Do you remember what Deaton taught you last week?” 

Stiles jumps, startled from his inner musings and confused by the sudden change in topics. “Scrying? Yeah, but what does that…” He trails off, eyes widening with realization. “You don’t think--” 

Derek shakes his head. “I don’t think it’ll do you much good in the traditional sense,” he says and Stiles deflates. 

“Then why bring it up? Remember the chickens!” Stiles pouts and tries to pull his hands away. They are firmly held to Derek’s temples and he’s forced to give up the fight. Stupid werewolves and supernatural strength. Curse their healing too, while Stiles thinks about it. 

“Focus Stiles,” Derek snaps. “Focus on my eyes, and believe.” 

It doesn’t take Stiles long to understand what Derek is getting at. He opens his mouth to complain; claim that it won’t work and be done with it before even giving it a try, but Derek yanks on Stiles fingers. They’re forced along the outer crease of Derek’s eyes, and Stiles can feel movement as Derek looks him up and down. 

“Focus.” 

And so Stiles does. He keeps his attention to the every twitch of Derek’s eyes, keeping his mind on them and away from everything else. The doubt drains away and with it comes a belief that this will work. Deaton’s voice echo’s in Stiles’ head. “Believe that you can see. Bring forth the sight.” And then there is a blinding light and Stiles wants to blink it away, but it’s like his body is not his own. 

His eyes blink against his will, and everything slowly begins to come into focus. It becomes immediately apparent that it is not through Stiles’ eyes that he is seeing the world. The first thing Stiles sees is his own face, glazed eyes wide in shock. 

“I stole your eyes!” he squeaks, unnerved by seeing himself speak each word. In hindsight he’ll probably want to laugh at this. It’s just like looking into a mirror, only not. So maybe his inner freak-out is slightly relevant. 

It’s Derek who chuckles this time. “You’re only borrowing them.” He then lets his eyes wander, letting Stiles take in every aspect of his room. 

Things that seemed irrelevant a day ago now seem new and important. Derek’s eyes end up stopping on Stiles’ nightstand. It’s there that Stiles has a picture of his mom and dad, before she got sick. His hands keep Derek’s face firmly in place as he soaks up their images; hoping that he might never forget them. 

Slowly, and with watery eyes, Stiles blinks and lets Derek move back to stare at Stiles. It’s embarrassing to know how apparent it is that he’s trying not to cry. His eyes are read rimmed and bloodshot. “Don’t look at me,” he says, but doesn’t try to push Derek away. 

Stiles closes his own eyes out of habit. No matter how hard he squeezes them shut he can still see his stricken face. It’s almost a shock when he sees Derek’s hand coming up to wipe the tears away. The whole experience is surreal, like watching your life happen on a movie screen. Stiles feels like a spectator to this, even as he feels Derek’s warm fingers pressing softly under his damp eyes. 

“What if I want to?” 

The question catches Stiles off guard. “What?” he stutters, and pushes back as far as his grip on Derek will allow him. 

“What if I want to look at you?” Derek clarifies and leaves Stiles no less dumbfounded. 

He chokes back a laugh and shakes Derek’s hand off. “Don’t… Don’t make fun of me.” Stiles forces himself to smile this time. “Besides, it’s no fair, I can’t see you.” 

“Do you want to see me?” Derek asks like it’s no big deal. It should be, Stiles thinks. What ever this is, what ever is happening now, is a big deal. 

Stiles nods, slow and hesitant. He wishes he can take it back the moment his hands are ripped away from Derek’s face and the world is nothing more than a smudge of ink. Stiles wants to protest, but Derek is already shushing him. 

“Close your eyes.” 

“Now what sense would that make? I can’t see one way or anoth--”

“Just close your eyes, Stiles.” This time around Stiles listens, but not without a grumbled complaint. His hands are once more lifted to Derek’s face. He fingers at the stubble of Derek’s jaw and accidentally draws his thumb over Derek’s smooth lips. 

Stiles doesn’t think he imagines the wetness of a tongue grazing the tip of his thumb, but he chooses to ignore it just in case. “How is this supposed to help me see you?” If his voice is a little winded and strained, well, he chooses to ignore that too. 

“Let your touch refresh your memory,” is all Derek says. 

So that is what Stiles does. Without much thought, he glides his fingers along every curve and dip. It doesn’t do much to help jog Stiles’ memory, but he can’t bring himself to tell Derek that. He can only laugh when his finger almost stuffs it’s way up Derek’s nostril, and when he does end up poking Derek in the eye. 

The atmosphere that was once so thick and heavy, is now light and airy with a cheerfulness that just shouldn’t be. Maybe this is what Derek was trying to do all along. It settles Stiles nerves for the time being, and he allows a true smile to bloom. 

“I still can’t remember the color of your eyes,” Stiles idly ponders. “All the groping in the world isn’t going to help me there.” 

Derek snorts out a laugh and leans in closer. Hot breath is once more fanning over and warming Stiles cheeks. He knows some of that warmth is due to his own blush, but he’s all for ignoring it. Stiles has gotten good at that. 

“I don’t think the color of my eyes matter.” 

The tip of Stiles thumb trails over Derek’s lips once more, this time it’s not so accidental, and this time Stiles is sure that’s Derek’s tongue coming out to taste. “It ma--matters…” He’s not proud of stuttering, but his heart is jack-rabbiting within his chest like nothing else. 

It speeds to a concerning rate as Derek pushes closer. Stiles can only regret not being able to see his face, and read his expression. Their current situation is so far from the norm that Stiles is unsure if he’s reading the signs right. A small part of his is even wondering if he was turned to stone and this is some weird version of heaven. Or maybe hell, Stiles still isn’t sure if this is leading to good times, or bad. One can only hope for a positive outcome. 

Stiles is pushing closer through the darkness, hoping to reach a light just so that he might catch one glimpse of Derek. There lips must be so close; Stiles swears he can feel the brush of Derek’s as he speaks. “I want to feel you,” Stiles says, and really he meant ‘see’ but it’s easy to get ‘see’ and ‘feel’ confused. Especially when there is a Derek Hale ready to kiss you. 

They meet half way, Derek seeming more than happy to let Stiles feel him; preferably via the lip area. Stiles isn’t one to complain, and presses in. The kiss is simple, and dare Stiles say sweet? It’s the truth, and it makes Stiles no less of a man to admit this. There is no tongue, and no burning passion. Nothing but the soft pressing of lips. 

And, if anything good is to come out of this blindness via Gorgon situation; Stiles thinks that this may be it.


End file.
